


Making Love and Making Rain

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [13]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Crack, Early Relationship, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff and Humor, Getting Down in the Barn, Implied Sexual Content, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love, M/M, Slice of Life, Storm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 06:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17442083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Clark and Bruce get caught in a rainstorm on their way home to the Kent farm and take shelter in the barn. Storms are the perfect excuse for cuddling.





	Making Love and Making Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely self-indulgent. I got the idea while listening to the This Never Happened Before by Paul McCartney. If for some reason, you have not heard this beautiful song, please look it up. You will be glad you did.
> 
> Read it in Chinese by copying and pasting this link: http://junchangliu.lofter.com/post/1ea8acdc_12db49d69
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters but I do own this story. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and enjoy!

               The clouds are a bloated black above us, roiling with inky fingers—the threat of rain, implicit. Wind whips over the fields, through barbed wire fences and poorly fitted window frames, howling her discontent.

                I’ve seen storms before. Gotham has her fair share. But nothing is quite like an afternoon thunderstorm in rural Kansas. Nothing makes a man pause, staring blindingly at the sheer power of Mother Nature, feeling small and insignificant, like the storms of the Midwest.  

                I feel small now. Hand in hand with Clark, walking at a fast clip in the direction of the farm. Small and strange. Childlike.

                We went for a walk down to a fishing pond that Clark used to frequent as a child and laid under the heat of the sun for hours, twiddling grass, whispering secrets, kissing till our mouths were chapped and our stomach’s growling. It would have felt foolish only a month ago, to lay in the grass with Clark like that. To let myself go so completely that I’d nodded off beneath the sprawling arms of a sycamore tree. But it had merely felt right.

                Like finally coming home after a long weary sabbatical.

                And I already feel greedy for more. More stolen moments. More touches on sun-drenched skin, drunk off each other like horny teenagers. I want more.

                Now that I’ve tasted the simplicity of it, the sheer joy of sitting beside Clark like that, I will always want more.

                Hand in hand, rushing to beat the pummel of rain that is going to catch us anyways, I feel the pulse of what binds us strongly. An invisible chord, strong and growing stronger by the day.

                There is something uniquely human about being caught in the rain and Clark, despite his tugging on my arm to move faster, doesn’t appear to be in the mood to fracture the dream. The illusion of our equal footing and his mortality. So, we keep walking, hurried footsteps over thick grass, down irrigation ditches and through well-worn deer tracks in the fields of Clark’s neighbors.

                I can see Clark perfectly as a boy, chasing dragonflies and making wishes on decaying dandelions. He would have been like a freshly birthed star then, almost too bright and hopeful to bear.   

                We share meaningful looks, pass squeezes through our woven hands, tripping over our tennis shoes, while glancing upwards at the threatening sky. There is no dread in getting caught in the storm. Only an odd sense of peace and stillness. I let myself revel in it, because it is so rare to be without the buzz of thoughts, so rare not to question or worry or dissect my actions or thoughts. It is so rare simply to _be_ in the moment. And when the heavens open and the rain begins to pound into us, we break into a sprint laughing like loons.

                The rain is merciless. Huge wet drops with slashing wind batter us and even before we make it to the clearing where I can see the Kent barn as a red smudge in the deluge, we are soaked to the skin. It takes a handful of minutes to reach the barn, to barrel inside and close the doors, breathless and exhausted.

                Clark’s hand is still in mine when we collapse on the floor, backs to the door, laughter still echoing in the chilly damp. My skin tingles from head to toe, hair dripping down my back. I don’t realize I’m chattering from the sudden cold until Clark looks up at me and frowns.

                “Bruce—you must be freezing.”

                “I’m—f-fine.”

                He lifts a brow, tugging me back to my feet and then deeper into the barn. The smell of hay and animal is a comforting scent I’ve come to associate with Clark. With the Kent farm and all the normalcy that goes along with it. It sits like a pretty garnish on the memories we made by the pond and warms me kindly.

                “Here.” Clark slings a red blanket over my shoulders, rubbing roughly down my arms for added heat. I smile wanly at him in response.

                “Clark, I’m f-fine.”

                “You’re still shivering. I can see it.”

                “I’ll s-s-survive.”

                We say nothing else when I move towards the loft and start to climb the ladder. I’ve been in the barn before. We’ve had deep conversations over the meaning of life, over what Superman should do, over what we mean to each other, all within these walls. But we’ve never been as we are now.

                We’ve never been _together_ and in these walls.

                There is something decidedly soft about sharing the little beat up sofa with Clark in the loft, curling into his side for warmth and grinning into his soaked shirt. Something that makes my toes curl in my squeaky tennis shoes and my stomach flutter with nerves when Clark starts to thread his fingers through my hair, casually touching me in a way that still feels new.

                Still feels—a little frightening. Because it smacks of unreality. That if I blink, I might wake up. If I say the wrong thing, if I do the wrong thing, it could all crumble into dust and Clark will have never really been here at all. This afternoon, with all its dreamy childlike glory, will have been just that—a dream.

                “What are you thinking about?”

                “Many things.”

                “Tell me one,” Clark says softly. I can feel his lips at my temple, his breath tickling my damp skin. Lightning flickers through the slats of wood in the barn, illuminating the shapes of farm equipment and a tom cat that the Kent’s keep around for mice. The thunder grumbles back in reply and I tuck myself deeper into the pocket of warmth I’ve created at Clark’s side.

                “I liked your pond.”

                Clark inhales softly, sinking into the sofa, pulling me down a little with him, “It was nice, wasn’t it? Just you and me for an afternoon.”

                “It was.”

                “Did you ever have a hiding place as a child like that? A place you ran off to for thinking?” he chuckles dryly, “For brooding?”

                “The woods at the back of Wayne manor were an excellent place for a young boy to get lost. I roamed them often.”

                “I bet you brought all manner of creature home for Alfred to cluck over.”

                I smile lazily, feeling my eyelids heavy. I can’t remember the last time I spent an entire day outside in the sun and my skin feels a little raw. I’ve likely gotten a sunburn. Something else I haven’t done since I was a boy. “Mmmm, did you know that Alfred is afraid of frogs?”

                “I did not know that.”

                “I once collected a bucket full of them then brought them home for Alfred. I insisted he let me keep them all.”

                “And did he?”

                It’s easy to nuzzle into Clark, pressing a kiss where Clark’s pulse beats steadily in the hollow of his throat. His skin is far warmer than mine, despite the chill of wet clothes. Clark smells like the rain and sunshine. It makes my stomach clench and my hands tingle when I reach blindly to gather him closer to me.

                “No. He released them out in the garden when I went to bed that night.”

                “Were you—” Clark murmurs, cupping the back of my head as I press more kisses to his skin, quietly unbuttoning his shirt with frozen fingers. “Were you very upset?”

                “No. I understood why. Besides, it meant I had to go back out the next day and collect something else.”  
                Clark hums in the back of his throat when I shift and climb into his lap, bringing the blanket with me. It adds an extra barrier between us and the outside. Between the storm and the calm that centers in our little bubble. The wind outside the barn has picked up to garish screams, tearing at the siding and spooking the horses beneath us. I can hear their pawing and snuffling. It’s oddly soothing to listen to.

                “Bruce,” Clark whispers, his voice gone feather soft, hands gripping my hips to steady me. Heat spiders to my middle from where he’s touching me. “Storm is getting bad. We should probably go inside.”

                I don’t answer at first. I’m too caught up in the steady reveal of tanned skin I’ve got going on. I’ve undone nearly all the buttons of his shirt and I’m smoothing my hands down the planes of his chest and belly, fixedly watching as Clark’s stomach jumps when my knuckles graze his waistband.

                “Will there be a tornado?”

                He blinks at me, eyes hazy, mouth slightly slack and it’s a look I’m covetous for more of. Clark and I haven’t been together long. Every touch, every look, every dance of fingers on skin feels like exquisite torture and I can never get enough.

                “I—”

                “What’s the weather service say?”

                His nose scrunches as he frowns at me, then his eyes go distant. “Flood warning. High number of lightning strikes possible.”

                “No tornado?” I ask, reaching casually for the top button on his jeans. He hisses out a breath when I get it open.

                “No.”

                “Then we’re fine.”

                “Bruce—” he hums, leaning forward, nearly toppling me off his lap. His mouth is as greedy as my hands were when it finds mine and I go boneless, damn near melting into a puddle of flesh. I don’t realize when he’s managed to tug my sodden t-shirt over my head or what happened to the cozy warmth of the red blanket, but I do notice when Clark shifts and presses me into the sofa. The springs groan and I laugh into Clark’s mouth at the sheer—normalcy of it all. The average wonderfully human details of this moment I will never forget.

                “What?” Clark breaks from my mouth to trail kisses down my throat, to grip my hips and adjust me so we align better and won’t fall off the couch. We’re far too big for the sofa and by the end of this, it’s very likely we will break it.

                “Nothing—it’s just funny.”

                Clark’s mouth hitches into a grin and he pulls back to stare down at me, the picture of a lover with the object of his affection. All pink cheeks, mussed hair, and glowing eyes. My chest tightens, and I reach up to smooth a thumb over one of his cheek bones, just to ground the image. To be sure it won’t fade and fizzle away.

                We don’t end up breaking the sofa. But it is a near thing.

                It’s uncomfortable and there isn’t enough room. Our skin is wet and clothing gets stuck awkwardly as its being tugged off. I sneeze during a particularly intense part of our endeavor and we break into fits of giggles, which completely changes the encounter from soft and passionate, to charming and endearing. But we manage and though we’ve only been intimate a handful of times, I suspect having sex on Clark’s sofa in the barn loft will forever top the charts as one of the best for me.

                I will never forget what it’s like to stare into cornflower blue eyes as the world sounds like its breaking into pieces just outside. To feel so very human and fragile and small, and yet—powerful. Because Clark chose me. Because Clark is with me and not someone else.

                We dress back in our damp clothes and wait till the worst of the storm passes before heading for the house. When we emerge the sun is struggling back out for an attempt at sunset and it clings to the drowned fields with fervor. Clark has a hold of my hand again and I smile up at him when he stops us on the deck, just before going inside to kiss me.

                It’s a kiss to seal the others. And I’m a little ashamed to admit I’m dazed when it ends and Ma Kent opens the door to wave us in. Clark never lets go of my hand. Not when we get a stern talking to about staying out in the rain, or when we sit at the table for chicken pot pie and green been casserole. Or when Clark leans over after eating his slice of pie and surprises the hell out of me by kissing me soundly right in front of his mother.

                His hand stays on mine. Tight and unrelenting. A promise.

                Ma Kent goes to bed early and we take over the living room and flip on the TV. Clark finds reruns of I Love Lucy and we settle on the couch with the dog curling into my side. I don’t care about all the dog hair that will get stuck to my side or how the TV is small and the picture is poor. The Kent house still smells like pie and casserole. The sun is down and the stars are shining brighter than they ever do in Gotham. It’s about as picture perfect as a man could ask for.

                “Thank you,” Clark whispers over the animal snoring at my side, his mouth tipped in amusement.

                “For what?”

                Clark wraps a hand around the back of my neck and draws me in to kiss me hard on the mouth. “For today. It was lovely.”

                I smile, sighing into his chest, draping my legs over his lap so that I’m practically sitting on him. It’s not the most dignified of positions but it’s probably the most comfortable I’ve ever been.

                “Same thing tomorrow then?”

                Clark laughs, “I’ll take you on the tour of Smallville’s downtown. Should take about five minutes. You’ll love it.”

                “I’m sure I will.”

                And the thing is, I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.    


End file.
